are these two? Why wasn't I called about these murders?"
Never one to run from a fight, Rapp squared himself so he was within striking distance of the police officer. Even though the man looked over fifty he was probably in his early forties like Rapp. Unlike Rapp, though, he was pudgy and out of shape. He had a little potbelly and that ridiculous shoe-polish-black beard.
Hubbard started to answer but Rapp reached out and grabbed his arm. Turning his eyes on the Afghani, Rapp said, "Who I am is none of your fucking business. As to why we didn't call you, that should be obvious. You're a thug and a piece of shit."
Zahir's face flushed with anger and he began to stutter.
Hubbard put up his hands and said. "Commander . . . what he's trying to say is that it has been a very busy morning and that we were about to call you."
Rapp kept his eyes on Zahir but directed his ire at the Jalalabad base chief. "Hub, shut up. That's not what I was about to say. I was about to tell this little yellow turd that I know exactly who he is, and if he has a half a brain he'll get the hell out of here before I shoot him."
"How dare you speak to me in such a way." Zahir stepped back and began clutching at his big leather holster for his sidearm.
From the right inside fold of his jacket, Rapp produced his Glock 19 in an easy, fluid motion. Zahir was still struggling with the flap on his holster when he looked up to find the square black frame of Rapp's gun in his face.
"I want you to listen to me," Rapp said in an easy tone, "and I don't want you to say a fucking word until I'm done."
Coleman had already drawn his gun, a big H&K .45 caliber, and maneuvered to cover the other two police officers who were just one step inside the doorway. The safety was already off and he spoke to the officers in Pashto, telling them to keep their hands where he could see them.
Rapp pressed the gun into Zahir's face just under his nose. "Here's what you need to know. I'm not some State Department weenie, or some two-star corporate general who thinks the best way to advance my career is to kiss your terrorist ass and get the hell out of this place so someone else can come deal with all you assholes again in twenty years. I'm the guy they call when the shit hits the fan. I'm the one they bring in to get results because they know I don't play by the rules. I know who you are. I know you've killed plenty of GIs and you've tormented and kidnapped your fellow citizens for your own profit. You're a bully and a piece of shit and you're the kind of guy who I actually enjoy killing. Normally I don't put a lot of thought into the people I shoot, but you fall into a special category. I figure I'd be doing the human race a favor by ending your worthless life. Add to that the fact that I'm in a really bad mood. In fact I'm in such a shitty mood that putting a bullet in your head might be the only thing that could make me feel better."
Rapp studied the man for a moment and then tilted his head toward his right shoulder as if he thought there might be some other way to deal with him. "In the interest of fairness, though, I suppose I should give you a chance to convince me otherwise."
Zahir's chest was heaving as he struggled to get his lungs working. His eyes nervously darted between Hubbard and this crazed man sticking a gun in his face. He'd been around plenty of killers and felt he could tell the difference between the pretenders and the men who meant what they said. This man had the look of someone who clearly meant what he said. The only lifeline that came to mind was the person who had negotiated Zahir into leaving behind his lawless ways.
"Mr. Sickles is a good friend of mine," Zahir sputtered. "He is a very good friend. He is a very important man. He will be very upset when he finds out about this."
Rapp's instincts were right. The Kabul station chief had put this goon in a position of power. "Darren Sickles," Rapp said, with contempt dripping